Cain and Abel
by Seeky L. H. Wolf
Summary: Vegeta commits suicide, Goku discovers the body. The first half is the suicide note...not a one-shot, I HOPE to continue.


A/N: So, here's a really angsty DBZ fic for all of you, from the same mind that brought you "Grandma was an Honorific." This is for fans of that, and anyone who has felt the burning of ambition, as well as the flickering light of failure. This first bit is from Vegeta's POV, and really has no distinct time frame—maybe it's even during GT! The next part—well, it's easy enough once you read it.  
  
Anyways, this story is the closest I have ever come to owning DBZ, so don't sue me. Warning: Suicide, gory description.  
  
Thanks to Zeke, for watching DBZ daily, until I got this idea!  
  
S. L. Hanna Wolf  
  
Cain and Abel  
  
I'll say it cleanly as I can. I'm jealous. You heard me. I, Prince Vegeta of the great warrior race known as Saiyan, am jealous. I'm jealous. I envy that—that boy—with every infinitesimal fiber of my being. I resent every good act, deed, minute detail of life that he has going for him. I'm jealous.  
  
Some may think that a prince would never do something as petty as to envy. Some have also never stood next to the one who has stood me up in every department of my life. Some have never been compared to another in such ways, and come out so obviously inferior. Some have never suffered the falling sensation you feel when you realize that you are not only inferior, but also unnecessary.  
  
Who it is that humiliates me so? I'm sure you already know. It's that idiotic Kakarot; or Goku as he is called now, on this planet. Yes, on this planet, he has become one of the shining stars; a light of truth and all that rot. He's so perfect, saving the day all the time. Always so, naïve, thinking anyone could have done the same. He doesn't even realize.  
  
That's what really angers me; he doesn't realize how much it matters. He is like some sort of perfect warrior, but he's also very peaceful and all. He looks perfect, seems absolute. Moreover, as far as I can tell, it's not an act. It's for real.  
  
He really is so great and perfect, that even I, the Prince of the Saiyans, am a pale facsimile of him. I am not needed here; he's the great one, the superman, the guardian angel of this world. I took a wife and a new life here, hoping that I could escape fighting, but trouble came for Goku, and I couldn't prove my worth, when placed beside him on the front line.  
  
I could never prove my worth, with him here. And I can't remove him, for fear of destroying the planet indirectly. Saiyans have always been very clear—a warrior who cannot prove his worth in battle (a male Saiyan, at least) is worth nothing. They must be removed, as they only cost valuable supplies, and do no good to the race as a whole. They must be removed. And, since there is no one else here to do it, I will have to fight one final battle against myself.  
  
Goodbye, Bulma and Trunks—you will probably hate me for this, but it's duty, obligation. I hope my son will understand these ideals when he is older. Farewell, Piccolo. I'm sure that you will be the first to understand. You have felt rage and other raw emotions that our pure, sweet Goku probably never will. Goodbye, Krillin. We never quite saw eye-to-eye, but you were always there. You, too never came close to Goku's sheer power, his energy. If I have missed anyone who needs a farewell, yes, this is for you. Though my Saiyan pride shudders at the thought, you were—friends.  
  
And, last—goodbye to you. Your naïve ways will probably make you blame yourself. Don't. I was the weak one, the lesser of us two. I failed, and have only done what honor requires. You were—almost—like a brother to me; trying so hard to find and appeal to the good in me. If such good existed, it was not for good on the battlefield. That is all that matters to a true Saiyan. Maybe that's what makes you so wonderful; you're so—human, Kakarot.  
  
Well, in my final battle, I shall be human as well. I shall not properly behead myself, like a true Prince of our race. I shall simply slit my wrists, and wait. The knife is right here, Kakarot. I can almost taste the sweet pain, and revulsion mingling, as I draw it against my skin, its silvery surface biting my nerves.  
  
I'm not afraid, for once. Yes, in my last moments, I will admit it. Every time I saw you fight, I was afraid. Afraid that you'd try to claim a right to the throne. Afraid of your momentous power. I was afraid of you.  
  
Now, I have nothing to fear anymore. In mere moments, this simple knife, this rudimentary tool, shall remove me from my body. I hear humans sometimes have one last wish. Mine is to never be compared to you again. I hate to lose, and compared to you, I am unable to win, no matter the contest. I truly did care about you, Bulma, Trunks. I did. Nevertheless, I am Saiyan, and all is a war to me. Death is the only peace in my life. I'm sure you understand—you've died several times, but have been proven to important to live, for good.  
  
I'm sorry to have rambled on so long. I suppose it's stalling—I am afraid to die, and this is a battle, to have not thrown the knife far away and gone to find Bulma. It's time. Just in the case that some historian ever wishes to know the last words of the second-best Saiyan, they're this, because they're the truest words I'll have ever said (indirectly) to you—  
  
"Almost like a brother. Almost."  
  
Goku looked up from the letter, and glanced at the fallen warrior. He lay on the couch, no sign of any ill will toward anyone in his expression. The sleeves of the pink shirt Bulma had once given him were rolled up to his elbows, and a strong red gash ran the length of each arm. Blood had fallen on the white couch, as well at the blue jeans he wore, forming a large, sable stain, which would never come out. The black pen used to write the last letter sat on the table next to the bloodstained envelope marked simply "Kakarot."  
  
Goku had come to visit the other Saiyan as a nicety, a small kindness to him. He had felt that Vegeta had become someone different, less Saiyan. He had obviously been wrong. The man lying on the couch was the same man that had been supreme Prince of the Saiyans. He had been a cruel leader. He had been a caring father. He had been a comrade.  
  
He had been—almost like a brother. It pained Goku to see Vegeta's blood on the white couch, dripping onto the pale green linoleum. It was hard to not scream, or cry, or something stupid like that, but Goku simply stood there.  
  
"Brother," he muttered, tasting the word as much as the stale scent of fresh blood in the air. Then, he took the knife and gently made a small cut on his palm. Some of Vegeta's blood mingled with the small amount of his own in the wound, and he squeezed a drop of his own onto Vegeta's left wrist, in a gesture of blood-brotherhood.  
  
Then, not knowing how he would tell Bulma or Trunks, he went to sit against the couch, his head leaning against the corpse's feet. No, Vegeta's feet. He was no willing to de-personify him yet. It was Vegeta, a friend and enemy. He didn't want to live in the shadow of someone else, so he left. Simple enough, Saiyan logic was.  
  
"Oh, Vegeta. If you had said something--" Goku stopped. If he had said something, he wouldn't have been the same headstrong Vegeta. It would have been someone softer, more human. Goku sighed, knowing that it was pointless to argue with himself as Vegeta's bodily fluids seeped deeper into the fabric of the sofa. He didn't know what else to do, so he picked up Bulma's home telephone, and dialed the number of her cell.  
  
Cliffie! Yay! Have a nice day!  
  
Seeky 


End file.
